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calling homeSometimes when it's really dark and I'm lying in my bed alone — even when it's not just me — I see these little lights. I don't know if it's dreaming or not, but it's the prettiest thing you could ever see that's not the face of someone you love; all colors sometimes they are, winking on and off, and they just make me feel so much better.
I see them when I cry from time to time. I still cry. He says I can do it all I want, he teases me and it makes me think maybe I shouldn't, I should be grown up even though nobody ever treated me grown up and it's awfully hard to be something nobody ever said you could be, but he says he likes it, that it shows I'm sweet. I wish I didn't want to do it so often. But it hurts. Everything hurts even when it's wonderful, maybe especially then. And isn't it lovely then? I don't feel alone when they're around me, all those lights.
Your Insignificant GoddessHe curled himself loosely, soft legs and loose arms, against the wall like a prawn on a plate. He kept his lashes low, his face turned away from me, only moving to write and place the slate in front of my knees.
I'VE DONE MY TIME.
"I know, sweetie." I crouched beside him, reaching out to take his shoulder and then thinking better of it. I kept forgetting that he was younger than me, younger by several years. Sometimes, though, it was all too apparent. He was cold and firm, but there was so much simplicity in the smoothness of his face and limbs, this body like mine that time hadn't carved idiosyncracies into yet, his face like a brush painting the way I'd imagined it: uncomplicated, clean, fresh. "And you've done it better than I could ever have done."
I DON'T WANT TO GO BACK. I'M TIRED OF BEING HIS DOG.
"You won't be forever," I whispered. The threat of tears squeezed the backs of my eyeballs. This blessing, this cursed blessing. He was so real, so good, and now it too was real, what
Sweetest Silent SongHe sits in the window that shows the view most like Heaven with an empty book in his lap, stroking it like an inconsolable child. Silent.
I have never had the words to comfort or express. My language has always been that of clashing spears and cold hard coordinates; I can mimic the masters of pathos when it serves me well, but when it comes to speaking my own true emotions I am as dumb as the butt of a spear. Any elegance I may have, I learned from him.
Once I had the honor of belonging to the sweetest song in Hell.
And now that voice is silenced, perhaps forever. The gash across his throat boasts itself like a second mouth mocking the uselessness of the first. The memory of seeing him take it will forever drown out the rest of the battle; the blood of the one who inflicted it has long been washed from my hands into oblivion, but the consequences remain.
His pen is just as silent now. He no longer writes, for with no ability to reproduce the music or narrate he composes all j
At Night, The River"Enjoying the night, Mordecai?"
The child looked up and smiled as Silvia settled next to her, interrupting the song he had been murmuring while sitting on the bench overlooking the river, kicking his booted feet. His teeth were very white and sharp, his eyes were a deep purple, and his hair was fair. He could have been anywhere from twelve to fifteen, and neither.
He was one of the few creatures Silvia Marsh feared.
"Where's your Ezra?"
"Duke Riesgraf-Carleton is at home taking his rest, as if you didn't know," said Silvia, more stiffly than she had intended. "I'm alone tonight."
Mordecai snuggled into her leather-clad shoulder, wrapping a little white hand around her bicep. Despite the thick coat between them, Silvia shivered at the chill of his skin. "I could warm you up."
"I don't think so. I'm here for information, not your sick idea of playtime."
He pouted, all sugar. "You hate me, don't you? Silvia, you know I think you're pretty. You remind me of a girl I killed in Prague. Just
Grimm Beginnings: PREVIEW
Kitty opens the meeting with cookies.
As we chomp away, she outlines the plan for today. Apparently there's an amusement park in the area that's had more than its share of bizarre and dangerous accidents recently, and we're going to investigate, hopefully solving the problem. Fairly straightforward to most of us, but old 5 looks about ready to puke. I resolve to take him aside and share a few pointers, even though I'm not the best pep-talker. Better me than Stun, though on my first mission I naturally went to my best friend for advice, and guess what he told me? "Don't die." With advice like that, who needs chronic depression?
Anyway, the idea is that Frostie will take him under her wing (I couldn't have picked better; Frostie has the chops to keep him safe and calm), Kitty and Stun will draw the People or whatever the place has into the open. I'll join Kitty in diplomatic dealing, and if that doesn't work, the rest of the team will be
Fallen IrrecoverableI dislike attending balls. The pretended languor of the men who seem to have spent the last half of an hour in front of their mirrors practicing their jaded expressions repels me, and I cannot love the ladies who preen and flutter and sharpen their files of tongues on the bones of every one who passes before turning the buffing side to polish up friends and enemies alike. Not even our fair city's favorite, the masquerade, can captivate me; there the artifice so apparent and stifling in other gatherings of the like is only externalized and treated as a clever trick.
Solitude in the workshop or the library comforts me far more. There I am alone with no one to expect anything from me no witty words of which I have none, no sympathy or empathy of which I cannot express, only the wood and the knife under my hands shaping themselves into gentle and undemanding shapes, beauty existing for beauty's sake and no one else's; silence, acceptance, peace.
Tonight we have been invited. I must
Etzel and the ColossusEtzel von Gerhart scrambled over the rubble of a fallen wall, surveyed the carnage before him, and groaned.
This was the third straight night of fighting. Put a battalion of demons and the warriors they were bound to in front of a guerrilla band of very, very angry warlocks, and things were bound to get ugly bloody quick. But then, apparently, they kept on getting bloody. Lengthily. Etzel ducked as a magical explosion detonated and something fleshy flew over his head.
None of the nastiness and mess really had an impact on his role here, though. Etzel folded his arms and wiped the splatters fastidiously from his face with his favorite handkerchief black, so that the stains didn't show. All he really had to do was find a certain item, get it and bring it back to his employer though killing as many opposing warlocks as possible would be a bonus.
Well, then. Where to find this sunstone. He tucked his kerchief away and dusted his hands off theatrically, then for good measure t
Stahl-Legion: Night TerrorsIt is several months since the first maschine became part of him, and still Lars wakes screaming in the night.
Lotte mocks him often for it; she mimics his ranting and frantic gasps for breath, and the others pretend they don't find it funny most of the time. He doesn't try to tell her what he sees any more, or any of them most of the time. He doesn't try to describe the visions that scald the interior of his skull: the great beasts that are neither angel nor demon, but abominations wondrous and hideous in their inhumanity. Gaping mouths, innumerable eyes, an arm for every feather and a wing for every scale, huge as skies and small as breaths. They do not speak to him, but they tell him what the universe is made of, and when he wakes he doesn't remember a thing except the fear.
These are nothing new. They came before the metal sank its many little fangs into his left arm, his throat, his jaw. None of the little unpleasantries, as Doktor Herzmann calls them, came after the augmen
Stahl-Legion: Secret WingsEver since she can remember, Magda has been sure that everyone has secret wings that no one can see. She can feel hers. Invisible and airy, they make themselves known by the lightness of their absence. They belong there.
The others all have theirs, too. Lars' are of old tin, balsawood and ball-bearings; small, rickety and broken, just like him, with sharp edges that can spring out and slice unwary hands deeply at the slightest provocation. Lotte's are phoenix wings: big, blinding and burning anyone who comes near, sending rolls of thunder up to the heavens every time they strike the ground. Erik's are shining silver and shards of mirrors, dazzling but dangerously smashed up and undependable. Hans' are elegantly biological, like the Italian Da Vinci's wooden gliders but living breathing parchment, and Graham's are heavy, impressive things that hint at the raw power that drive them; commanding dragon's wings. Doktor Herzmann... he keeps his hidden well, but surely they are bon
Lust. France x Reader
She never looked nice.
She looked like art, and art wasn't suppose to look nice;
it was suppose to make you feel something.
—Rainbow Rowell, Eleanor & Park
“God, he looks so gorgeous.” [Name] mumbled out of nowhere, taking a sip of her own drink. Eliza gave her an odd look, but it seemed that the girl didn't take notice of this and continued to babble about something that would probably horrify Eliza. “I know boys aren't supposed to be gorgeous. But he is, he really is. I won't deny that.”
And Eliza did look horrified. Not only horrified, but confused too. She probably had no idea what [Name] was talking about. Was she drunk? She probably was, but she doesn't necessarily get drunk that easily; Eliza knew that for a fact. She had been with [Name] longer than any of her [past] boyfriends have. “What the fuck are you
There is a Goddess in the RainDrops of water tumble towards the Earth, miniscule craters forming upon their impact. A gust of wind causes each droplet to spiral into the bark of trees and leaves tremble at their touch. Clouds pull apart their seams, their misty fingertips leaving trails along the sky. Summer is busying himself with painting the world in lush hues as Rain brushes past him. He smiles at her, but she does not smile back. Dewdrops garnish her shoulders as she continues to ignore him. Summer does not breathe easy as he begins to pour a deeper green into the grass. His breath flutters as Rain twirls up thunderstorms. Drizzling the ground with lightning, she smiles.
Hands wet with soil Summer looks to her, though she is engaged in her best effort to flood the earth. With a flimsy touch he reaches out, whispering in warm breezes. She stops. He hangs violent reds against the sky and drapes soft whites to dull the color. A pink haze covers the land as Rain scowls. She begins her tumultuous course to sit upon
Finceline 2 Cap.9: El verdadero amor de Finn
en el capitulo anterior
Finn y Marceline se encontraban afuera de la casa del árbol…
Finn: Estas actuando muy raro últimamente Marcy…-dijo el muchacho viéndola confundido-
Marceline: Perdón, por lo de hace un momento, es que es algo muy urgente lo que te tengo que decir…-decía la vampira pensando que la PF ya había ido a hablar con él-
Finn: Ok ¿Qué es eso tan urgente que me tienes que decir?-pregunto Finn con el más mínimo interés-
Marceline: Te amo…-dijo la vampira viéndolo a los ojos muy seriamente-
Cap.9: "¿Qué debería hacer?"
Finn: ¿Eh? ¿Q-que has dicho Marcy?-pregunto Finn nuevamente-
Marceline: ¡Te dije que te amo, idiota!-le gritó mientras le veía directamente a los ojos y sus mejillas se t
Quien es Ella? Capitulo 1 Parte 2
Que desastre, se supone que hoy vengo a Danville, estoy en el avion junto con mi gran familia y equipo, justo en estos momento estoy casi a la mitad del vuelo y me toco de asiento con mi hermanita querida, ella en estos momentos lee en una obra de "Romeo y Julieta" mientras que yo simplemente veo el vacio que esta en mi derecha donde esta la ventana, viendo nubes y oceano.
- Chico: hola preciosa - dijo este hablando con mi hermana - soy roy y ¿tu eres?
- Sam: so-soy samanta y.....- dijo mi hermana tartamudeando e interrumpida
- Thomas: y yo thomas hermana de esta niña - dijo interrumpiendo su "conversacion"
- Chico: ah bueno, adios - se va triste y descepcionado....excelente
- Sam: ¿tienes que ser asi? - dijo ella reclamandome
- Thomas: ¿asi como? - dijo finjiendo no captar su punto
Finceline 2 Cap.10: El verdadero amor de Finn
en el capitulo anterior
Marceline: ¿De nosotros?-hizo una pregunta retórica, para luego continuar diciendo-Finn, te dije que estoy enamorada de ti…pero luego de que me entere de que la PF jamás vino a verte, te dije que lo olvidaras que olvidaras todo…solo has eso, olvídalo todo-decía la vampiresa viendo el cielo que estaba repleto de estrellas-
Finn: ¿Olvidarlo todo? …¿Así tan fácil? ¿Cómo puedes decirme eso? ¿Ya te olvidaste que tú me besaste, que me trataste de detener cuando la DP salió corriendo? ¿No eras tú la que querías hablar conmigo, sino porque te quedaste a esperarme?-hizo una tras otras preguntas que no necesitaban una respuesta-
Marceline: Ah… ¡Agotas mi paciencia chiquillo tonto!-grito Marceline acercándose a él y continuo diciendo- ¡Esta bien! ¡Quiero que te enamores de mí! ¡Que ol
The Coffee GodThe Coffee God behind the counter side shuffles foot to foot, a dance of steam and espresso. Black painted fingernails, inch wide gauged ears and a gray striped sweatshirt, hood twisted crooked on his back. There's a cigarette tucked behind one ear; it bobs and twitches with each step.
“Non-fat caramel latte,” he calls, part of a spell, part of a mantra, toneless (just a tuck at the end). I reach. He looks up.
The espresso maker hisses.
There's something like a grin, something like a spark, something like a shared secret linked eye to eye. When he passes over the drink (rough cardboard sleeve hot to the touch), he lingers. Our fingers brush, a shiver, a jolt, a ten-watt shock.
The Coffee God tilts his chin, shouts, “Hey, mind if I take my break now?”
and ducks around the counter without waiting for a reply.
He slips his cigarette between his lips without taking his eyes from mine. I follow him out the door.
La insignia imposibleEn la ciudad de Danville hay un grupo de chicas exploradoras, han conseguido todas las insignias posibles, desde las de altos riesgos, hasta la de comer lombrices, esta es la historia de una chica de ya 14 años ella es Issabela García-Sapiro la líder de este impresionante grupo y en el intento de conseguir la ultima insignia de todas la de ''Pedir una cita a un chico'' la mas difícil prueba de todas le aguarda.
En la cabaña de las chicas exploradoras
Grechen: ¡¡Chicas, chicas!!-corre con un libro en la mano
Mily: Que pasa Grechen
Joly: ¿Que les pasa a Issabela?¿esta bien?
Grechen: Si, solo que e visto su historial de insignias y...
Mily: ¡¿Qué pasa?!
Grechen: Solo le falta una insignia
Todas: ¡No es posible!
Grechen: Lo es mirad-abre el libro que es el registro de insignias
Las chicas lo miran
Moly: Es cierto y encima la que le falta
Joly: No la puede conseguir
Grechen: Y lo peor
O My MetropolisTear yourself from your boundaries, o my metropolis, and drift with the graceful slowness of continents to my arms. Though the others look not upon you, for you are black with smoke and sharp with the tongues of your children, I rejoice, for mine eyes have their full run of your rough and uncouth fierceness.
Come to my arms, o Manchester, and fit your city limits round my roads, your slums to my city centre. You make me desire the filth of the streets and the grey of bleak great winter skies above bleaker little lives.
Dirty me, my dear.
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Lilyas has dedicated herself to making our community a brighter place with her vibrant artwork and infectious enthusiasm for interacting with others in our community. It has certainly paid off, as many deviants flock to her page on a daily basis to let her know how much of an inspiration she is. We absolutely agree, and couldn't let all that hard work go without recognition, so it's with great pride that we bestow the Deviousness Award for March 2014, to ... Read More